Page 20 of The Holiday Hate-Off
CHAPTER 5
LUCY
To my stalker,
Okay, maybe you’re not a stalker. But you WERE peeping into my window, and then you left a note at my door. They make documentaries about these kinds of things.
Do you live in the building? My friend tells me your stalking is less creepy if you live in the building.
Also, thank you. I lost my mother last year. We used to dance together, before she got really sick, and the other night it felt like she was dancing with me. I got to pretend for a few minutes.
This was her favorite time of year, and she died just before lastChristmas, so I’m trying to find ways to enjoy this season for her, even though it’s hard. You know what I mean? Luckily, there’s a lot to enjoy about Christmas in Hideaway Harbor.
I realize I’m probably talking into the void, but maybe that’s why it’s so easy.
Best—
Dancing Queen
Iprop the Christmas card against my door before leaving on Friday morning, feeling like an idiot, because whoever wrote to me last night is probably long gone. But it feels kind of nice to commune with a stranger—and maybe a little like kismet, considering my Advent calendar prompt from Eileen this morning was:
Reach out to someone unexpected.
Writing the message also helped me shake a dream I had about Enzo finding the pink note. It was a nightmare, let me be clear. He showed up at my door, holding the half-eaten note, and said in a low, deep voice, “What are we going to do about this, Devil Woman?”
Then he advanced toward me, and?—
Needless to say, I woke up feeling disturbed.
And, yes, a little turned on, but that was not my fault. It was simply the natural reaction of a sexually stunted woman to a man with a beautiful body and face. I do not like Enzo. Idislikehim. But my Freudianidhas taken notice.
I just have to hope my hyper-reactiveness goes away once my body is less of a sexual desert.
Before I head to the café, I walk downtown to The Sweetest Thing, our local candy shop, to pick up some special treats for tonight. The exterior bricks are painted in colorful stripes that unfailingly attract tourists, especially tourists with children. The owner, Portia, is only my age and already a huge success. She makes these gorgeous candy canes in all kinds of special Hideaway Harbor-inspired flavors, like lingonberry and even lobster. She says she only makes the lobster ones because she enjoys watching the faces of the people who’re brave—or foolish—enough to try them.
I make my selection of mini candy canes for the event and take them to the register to check out. Portia, who’s manning the counter today, greets me. We’re friendly acquaintances, if not friends yet. I came by last week to interview her for the final project in one of my classes—an interactive app that catalogs information about Hideaway Harbor’s various businesses. The town already has an official app, but the user interface for mine is more intuitive.
Portia grins at me as she rings up my purchases, all while keeping up friendly conversation. She’s so inspirational and cool it’s frankly a bit intimidating. She has black hair and routinely wears colorful hair extensions. They’re sparkling green today, and she’s wearing green eyeshadow and knee-high socks to match. Sometimes her appearance gets stares, but she doesn’t give a flying you-know-what what other people think of her. It’s refreshing.
“Did you hear about the auction last night?” she asks, smacking her gum.
“The one at Hook, Wine, and Sinker?” I reply, handing over my credit card. “It sounded really swanky. I’m sure Eileen will have lots of gossip about it.”
She takes my card but doesn’t run it, instead tapping theedge against the striped counter. “No, I was talking about what happened at Hidden Italy.”
It’s like she just tossed a cup of sugar into my blood. I’m suddenly buzzing from the inside out.
“What did he do?” I ask without thinking.
From the way her eyes gleam, my question was more of a tell than I intended to give.
People in town aren’t unaware of the tension between Enzo and me. There were witnesses, of course, and that Lady Lovewatch piece, followed by the BANNED flyer outside of Hidden Italy.
“Have you seen Enzo since he got back to town?” she asks.
“Unfortunately,” I murmur. “He’s just as unpleasant now as he was four months ago. But what happened yesterday? Last I heard, the Cafieros were going to have some boring cocktail party for their advent calendar event.”
“That might have been the plan, but that’s not what happened,” she says with a wide grin. “The brothers found out what was happening at Hook, Wine, and Sinker and up and decided to auction themselves off for charity too.”
